A Tale of Two Tivas
by Closemyeyesandleap
Summary: When Tony and Ziva are sent on a deep undercover assignment, what effect will it have on their marriage, their friendships, and most importantly, their child or children yet to come? Family/Romance/Angst/fluff some Not one but two Tivas. Some McAbby
1. Chapter 1

**Their Unique Situation**

_Sorry for the corny story title. I do love alliteration. It will make sense eventually, however, it will take five or six chapters, maybe more. But trust me. It will be worth it when it does. I don't own anything Charles Dickens wrote. Well, I do, but I don't own the rights to them. But aren't they public domain by now? Questions, questions, questions. . .enjoy!_

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"Boss! Vance wants you in his office. He said it was urgent. Special Agent DiNozzo, sir, did you hear me?"

Tony waited a second longer before turning around to head-slap his probie agent Ryan Summerton, a round-faced boy of twenty-seven who, if his perky, eager-to-please attitude was any indication, could be Abby's long lost brother. Ryan's eyes crossed for a second, which for him was an unfortunate side effect of being head-slapped, because it meant that DiNozzo derived still more amusement in doing it.

"That's _very _Special Agent DiNozzo to you. I'm going, Probie-ton. Relax. Breath." He approached the young man who was standing nearly at attention and muttered in his ear. "Chillll."

"G-g-got it. Got it." Agent Summerton stammered with a quick smile at the end, trying to appear less nervous. The young agent retreated to the desk of his partner, Special Agent Whitney Yuri.

Tony leapt up the stairs in the middle of the bullpen two at a time, pausing to scan the room. Not much had changed in the last couple of years. His eyes focused on the very center, studying the grey-haired man who leaned over a desk as he fired questions at another agent who was furiously typing while providing answers, all without missing a key. The scene was achingly familiar. His eyes darted to the desk in the corner, the desk at which usually sat the reason all this was no longer his.

Ziva wasn't there. Tony didn't think twice about it; she was probably out on assignment or on a coffee run or in the bathroom. Tony resisted the urge to go check the bathroom as the meaning of the word "urgent" popped into his head in the form of Abby's usual, annoying definition. "_Urgent, Tony! I mean, like, NOW!"_

"Like, NOW!" had passed fifteen minutes ago. Vance would be angry, but Vance would get over it. Vance always did.

Tony slipped into Vance's office without knocking, earning a glare from his superior. "Glad you could join us, Special Agent DiNozzo. This is important." Tony glanced around the room, and his eyes met the gaze of the woman beside him. Ziva.

Tony's eyes scanned Ziva's, and hers did the same to his. Both were questioning, greeting, playful - all at the same time. Vance fidgeted uncomfortably. He felt as if he was intruding on something private, intimate. "DiNozzo. David!" He called out, as much to end the uncomfortable gaze that was being shared between his two agents as anything.

"I have a crucial assignment for the two of you. Might I stress that this is of vital importance to the welfare of our nation and several of our allies. It is high-risk, high-commitment and. . ."

"Wait up a second," Tony cut in. Ziva shot him a look at his extreme disrespect in interrupting a superior who was giving an order. "I thought that we were forbidden from working together. You split up our team and everything because of that!"

"Agent DiNozzo. First, I make the rules, _I_ can change the rules. Second, I did not split up your team, I promoted you and gave you a new team. Third, this mission calls for agents in your unique situation. Trust me, we searched through all our personnel. Nobody fits this assignment better than the two of you."

"Our unique _situation_," Ziva rolled her eyes.

Vance was getting tired of the jokes. His voice firmer, he said. "Yes, David. This is a deep undercover operation that requires two operatives, one of Middle Eastern origins" he nodded at her, "and one, a stereotypical, white American."

"I am the American Dream," Tony winked at Ziva, his excitement rising. He had thought he never would be able to go on an assignment with her again.

"This operation requires you to establish a home in Lebanon and and also establish amicable relations with several terrorist groups of the surrounding region. Ziva, you will be you...except you won't be. You will be a former Mossad officer who has spent long periods of time working with the American military, long enough periods of time to meet your husband, a psychology professor at Georgetown University with a PhD. They will trust you to pass them old pieces of intel, which we will ensure seem to be valuable but in fact are worthless. More importantly to them, however, you will know the intricate structure of Mossad, the Israeli Defense Forces, and the American Armed forces. You will understand unspoken rules between those who seem, to them, to be equals. You will know the breaking point of seemingly unbreakable soldiers. Your husband, skilled at the art of making psychological profiles, will be of great use. You will be master manipulators."

Tony and Ziva just blinked and stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Tony said, a touch of uncertainty in his voice, "Well, director, wouldn't they know the second our "master manipulation" didn't actually do anything that we weren't for real?"

Vance shook his head. "It is a complex operation. We will ensure you seem indispensable."

Tony seemed convinced, but Ziva still looked confused. "Vance, I still do not understand why our "unique situation," as you so eloquently put it" she added sarcastically, "is required for this mission. "Anyone can pretend to be married-"

"-we've done it," Tony cut in.

"Yes," Ziva affirmed. She wasn't sure if she liked the idea of living so close to Israel again, and even less the idea of pretending to aid terrorists. "Why must it be us? If it is just because we are _actually_ married-"

"Agent David, when I say "deep undercover", I mean _deep undercover_. This mission will be long. You will have to give up your entire lives at the present and for many years into the future. This means your friends, your homes, your identities. At least with the two of you, you will share the solitude with each other, and are less likely to slip, therefore, in your acting."

"Wow," Tony muttered. "That's mighty generous of you, Director." He looked straight into Vance's eyes. "I'm not buying it."

Vance returned his gaze. "There is one more thing. They will want to ensure you are who you say you are. They will have surveillance everywhere." Tony smiled, knowing where this was going. "They will require proof that I cannot order other agents, unmarried agents, to give. And I know very well that you two have no qualms about being intimate in public."

"Hey hey hey!" Tony interjected. "If this is about the Ranier mission, I've told everybody. Nothing happened! We were acting."

"I am not talking about the Ranier mission, DiNozzo."

Ziva grinned at Tony and winked.

"Oh. That."

* * *

_NCIS is about as mine as it is real. So yes, it is not mine. I'm sorry if that burst anyone's bubble._

_Before you ask, this story is not going in the direction you think it is going in. Most of this story is actually going to be set twenty years in the future (but I'll keep Tony in shape so he'll be just as handsome then :D). I know this begins like many other stories (undercover mission as married people, recalling under covers, etc.) but just bear with me. It is necessary to take the story where it needs to go and trust me, it will be nice and original. (I hope! I haven't read all the fanfictions out there for NCIS!) About the rating, I really don't know how violent this might get. It might stay very K, K+, or it might venture well into T. I am going to make it T for safety now but it may very well prove it later. It will never be M though. I don't write smut. Sorry or you're welcome, whichever is appropriate._

_Yes, Ziva kept her surname. _

_To my "Memories of a Monster" readers, I know I've slowed down. It's just that that is a dark story, and this is happier, at least for now. So this is my "I'm in a good mood story" and that is my "I'm in a bad mood story" and they will get updated as such._

_Alrighty then, reviews make me happy, and this is my "I'm in a good mood story." See how this works! So review please!_


	2. A Choice

**A Choice**

**2**

_1__st__. I am very aware NCIS as an agency is real, I meant like it is portrayed on the show, with Ziva and Tony. I have to stop rambling sometimes. . ._

_Oops, I promised this would be happy. It will be. . .sometimes. Like last chapter. This chapter is not particularly happy. Oh yes, I do not own the movie __Circus of Horrors__. I have actually never even heard of it before. Google, my friends. It seemed like it fit. Gotta work hard to keep up with DiNozzo._

_Oh and one more thing. Please use suspension of disbelief as necessary, accepting that covert missions on foreign soil do not exactly play out in front of me every day. I will try to make it realistic, though.

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"DiNozzo and David, let me emphasize to you that this is not an order." Tony and Ziva glanced at each other. They actually hadn't gotten that memo. "You may accept this mission, or deny it. You must realize that accepting it means you can have no contact with anyone other than the undercover NCIS agent assigned to you. You cannot contact Gibbs, or Miss Sciuto, or Agent McGee, or your team, Agent DiNozzo, or your family in Israel, Agent David."

"That part will not be a problem," Ziva muttered, referring to her family, which at this point was only her father. Not speaking to her team for years, however: that broke her heart.

Vance continued. "If Gibbs were to be shot in the line of duty, you could not return to see him. If McGee were to die in a bomb blast, you could not attend his funeral. If your father were to marry again-" Tony let out a sarcastic huff "-you could not be in his wedding. Do you understand this? There is also the matter of your current identities. You have to be dead to this world, lest they gain intel about two NCIS agents fitting the profile of their contacts who mysteriously went missing."

They nodded, no longer joking. They still had not chosen. Both realized that it was their duty to fight for their country, to do their part to try to destroy those enemies who were taking so many innocent lives, but the idea of separation from the ones they loved cut them deep.

Ziva spoke, and her voice was strangely hushed. "Which terrorist groups would we be. . ." she searched for the right word, ". . .infiltrating." It still did not fit. "Aiding" seemed, at the moment, to be more appropriate, although they both knew that was not what they would be doing.

Vance told them, and Ziva's face suddenly went pale. Her eyes darted around, not alighting on anything. They swept over Tony's face and Vance's and then shot to look at the floor. Her hands began to shake.

"I want to do it." Her voice was almost to low to be heard; it was almost strangled.

"What?" Tony asked, confused at her sudden change in behavior.

"I want to do it." She said more firmly, looking him straight in the eyes. Without looking at Vance, Tony turned on his heels and led her out of the office. From inside, Vance sighed and set himself to some paperwork. It was a good thing he had split them up, for reasons such as this. Tony always ignored protocol when he thought Ziva was threatened, even by a word or a memory. At least on this assignment it would be to their benefit

Tony walked straight down the hall and marched with Ziva into the men's bathroom.

It smelled.

He turned and marched into the women's bathroom, locking the door behind Ziva, who had followed him mostly out of shock.

"What's up, Zi?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Why do you think something is up?" Ziva asked, feigning confusion.

"Ziva," Tony lowered his voice, and it became more pleading, more urgent. "Don't do this. We talked about this. You can't just hide in yourself. You gotta talk to me. You _promised_ you'd talk to me."

She nodded, slowly and deliberately, remembering their conversation of nearly three years ago, on the night she had succumbed to a panic attack, and Tony had finally convinced her to speak about what had been done to her in Somalia.

"Did one of those groups hurt somebody you knew from Israel?" Tony proposed when she did not offer up any information. She shook her head. "Was Ari a member of one of them?" he ventured. She shook her head more vigorously.

"Somalia." She whispered, and that one word filled him with dread.

"No, Ziva. No! We killed them all! None are left." His words were full of a confidence he did not feel.

"I know." she said, her voice getting a little stronger, though it remained distant. "Once a few leaders from an allied gang of terrorists came to do. . .business. . .with Saleem and his men. Guns, explosives, I did not care then, I do not care now. As a, um," Ziva's voice was starting to falter, "as a show of. . .friendship, Saleem decided to give them what he, uh, called a. . ." her voice suddenly sped up and he hardly caught the words that followed, "'a sample of an exotic foreign delicacy that he had only recently tasted.' They were very. . .enthusiastic." She stuttered to a stop, and her eyes filled with a sorrow too painful for tears.

Tony embraced her, kissing her head gently. He was lost for words, but knew that she didn't require any. Ever since their first conversation, she periodically revealed small pieces of her horrific life during her captivity. He had cried with her; he had whispered the futile words of comfort; he had gone to another room and punched a wall once he had ensured she could not hear when his anger could not be contained in his body. Now, he knew that all she needed was his presence, his ears, his arms, and his acceptance. It was a responsibility he felt honored with, a responsibility that had increased when she had accepted him as her husband.

After minutes had passed, she looked up at him. "I want to do it. I _need _to do it. Not just because of that. I need to do something to help stop them, to ensure that fewer lives are damaged. Will you do so as well, Tony?"

Tony nodded solemnly. "Shall we tell Vance, darlin'?" he asked, lacing the last word with a flawless accent straight out of the porch-lined manors of Mississippi. As he had hoped, she smiled slightly.

"Yes, _dare_," she replied, fluttering her eyelashes.

To his own shock, he nearly choked laughing. Her fake southern accent mingled with the remnants of her Israeli one was so off that rather than leading him gently to oak-lined avenues, it yanked him unceremoniously towards the carnival from _Circus of Horrors._

He squeezed her hand and they exited the bathroom. A few agents passed them as they vacated the room, giving them hardly a glance. Everybody in the building knew their strange habits far too well to question them.

They reentered Vance's large office and stood side by side in front of his desk, their hands still intertwined. "We'll do it." Tony affirmed, glancing over at Ziva as he spoke.

Vance nodded. "Good. DiNozzo, may I speak to you alone for a moment." Ziva seemed surprised.

"What could you possibly tell him that I-"

"Out, David. That's an order." She turned and exited.

"Tony, she seemed agitated. Are you sure she is up to this? This is crucial, and as you very well know, a slip would not only be destructive to the operation and the country but would probably cost you both your lives." Tony nodded, trying to decide how to proceed. Finally, he decided to share a bit of the truth. Vance was right. He had Ziva's safety to look out for.

"She. . ." he tried to find the right word, ". . .encountered the leaders of one of the groups you mentioned while held captive in Somalia, Director. But I assure you she made this decision in her right mind. She thought it through."

Vance nodded. A sudden thought came to Tony.

"You don't think that will compromise the mission, the prior contact, I mean?" he inquired.

Vance shook his head. "I doubt it. It is unlikely they noticed a prisoner."

Tony hesitated before speaking. "Director, they came into _very_ close contact." His eyes begged the director to understand what he was saying beneath his words. Something in Vance's eyes said that he did. His voice was softer than Tony had ever heard it as he replied.

"If you think she will be alright, emotionally, there is very little risk the men will remember her face. It was likely disfigured at the time, and I doubt that is what held their focus. Bile rose in Tony's throat at the thought of men doing the things to Ziva, his long-time partner, his fearsome warrior, his beautiful wife that he knew they did.

"Okay." He muttered.

"Okay," Vance echoed. "Bring her back in," he messaged to his assistant.

Ziva stepped into the room and cast a questioning, almost accusatory look at Tony, who felt a stab of guilt for what he had been required to tell Vance. He knew, however, that she wanted to complete the mission and it was necessary for him to speak to Vance to do so.

"Let me brief you about certain particulars of the mission. You will receive more detailed backgrounds about yourselves later. Study them. Know them. Be able to recite them in your sleep. You two know the drill.

"This is a rigid assignment, but because of the long term nature of it, there is some flexibility. You are a married couple, living your life together. (_Good observation, Director, thought Ziva)_ You will be required to establish relationships, friendships. Not to do so would only arouse suspicion. (_Because relationships undercover always turn out so well, thought Tony_)" Vance glanced between his two agents before adding. "If you wish and you think the position is safe enough, you may have children. Realize that if you do, your children will not be DiNozzos. The name DiNozzo will be foreign to them. You may teach them English, as Tony will be an American."

It was at that moment that the two realized just how long of a mission this could be.

"And if we don't want to have children?" Ziva asked, glancing up at Tony. The idea of bringing a child into such a situation scared her.

"Then that is your choice." Vance's eyes focused on her. "Just know that by the end of this you may have no other opportunity." It was a euphemistic way of saying that this mission would take her beyond the child-bearing age. Ziva swallowed as she fought back maternal urges she had never even had before.

They nodded solemnly, and he pulled out two files. "Tony, Ziva, meet Tommy and Lea Jackson."

Ziva accepted her file stoically, but Tony's face broke into a wide grin.

"What, DiNozzo?" Vance complained.

"I wonder if McGee can sue NCIS for copyright infringement?"

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_Reviews are like ice cream on a cool summer's day. Why a cool summer's day? Because on a hot summer's day, all the ice cream would be melted and that, my friends, is an entirely different metaphor._


	3. A Time to Say Goodbye

**A Time to Say Goodbye**

**3**

_The quote is not mine. I found it on a "traditional Scottish blessings" site._

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"No! This is not happening!" This wasn't the first time Tony had heard Abby cry those words, and just like the last time, they filled him with sadness.

"Tony! Ziva! Forever!" Long streaks of black were running down her face, but she didn't care. Nothing mattered to Abby anymore, not since two of the most important people in the world to her had just announced that they would be gone, in danger, unable to contact her, for years and years and years.

"Abby, not forever, not forever," Ziva repeated firmly, a note of desperation just discernible. "We will return to you all someday."

"Someday, if you don't get blown up or shot or drowned or crushed first!" Ziva bit her lower lip, wishing she could comfort Abby more. Neither had been allowed to tell any of the others even the region where they were going, although the team had discerned it.

Even Tim McGee looked shaken, though he told himself that it was _not_ forever and that Tony and Ziva were the strongest people he knew, apart from Gibbs, of course.

Gibbs. His face was hard, but in his light blue orbs were sadness and loss. Worries about losing Ziva's skills on his team hadn't even crossed his mind. All he could think about was going a decade or more without head-slapping the man before him for making an immature joke, without sharing a rare hug with the woman who was like his daughter, without strolling into the bullpen late at night, coffee in hand, to find them huddled in a circle, despite being on different teams now: Abby in her skull pajamas, McGee with his jacket on and tie straight, despite the hour, Tony and Ziva leaning on each other like they were each other's only rest in the world, peaceful until Tony would try to poke Ziva's earlobe with an eraser and she would slap him in the chest. He would laugh from the shadows before wiping the grin off his face. "So much work we need to recruit another team, David, McGee?" he would bark at them in a mock anger they would think was real, and they'd scurry to their desks. DiNozzo would be slow in leaving, winking at Ziva and nodding at Gibbs, who would spare him a nod and a smile in return.

By the time they returned, he would be retired. Or shot.

"I'll miss you, Ziver," he murmured as he bent down and hugged her. She smiled at him and brushed away a tear.

"I'll miss you, too. Thank you, Gibbs. For everything. Just. . .everything."

Gibbs didn't like the finality in her words. "I'm not done pulling you out of trouble yet, Ziva. This isn't the end." He prayed his words were true.

Off to the side, Tony and McGee shook hands solemnly. "Man, I don't even want to call you Probie, Tim." Tony muttered.

"Please do, because Tim just sounds. . .weird. . .coming from you, Tony," McGee answered.

"Okay, Probie. When I come back I'll have a million Mcnicknames for yah, don't worry."

"I look forward to it," McGee smiled.

This was getting weird. "Seriously, don't. It will be a McAvalanche, Probay." Tony suddenly looked serious. "Look after Abby, will yah? She takes stuff like this really hard, you know?"

"Yeah I know," McGee nodded. Tony walked away to say goodbye to Gibbs. He hated that word: goodbye.

Gibbs looked him squarely in the eye, and Tony was suddenly reminded of the time Gibbs learned that he had proposed to Ziva. "You look after her, Tony. Keep her safe," Gibbs stated forcefully. His voice lost a little volume as he said, "and yourself. Keep yourself safe too."

"I will, sir." DiNozzo's answer was the same that he gave the day he spoke to Gibbs about marrying Ziva. The two men shook each other's hands firmly, and then embraced.

Ducky approached Tony and Ziva, who were standing together. They faced him. This was the goodbye they feared the most, because this was the goodbye that was most likely to be permanent. His eyes were full of tears. They rarely had seen Ducky cry. He opened his mouth then closed it, as if he did not know where to begin to say everything he needed to say.

Then he began to speak with his long faded accent, choked with tears, holding both of their hands in his.

"_May the road rise up to meet you,_

_May the wind be always at your back._

_May the sun shine warm upon your face;_

_the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet_

_again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand."_

"And we _will_ meet again." He kissed Ziva on the cheek, and then the two embraced. Then he and Tony did the same.

Next they walked to Palmer, who was standing there nervously. "See yah buddy." Tony said, clapping him on the back. "Sorry I am going to miss your first solo serial killer. I know that was an ambition of yours."

"Hey, not so loud," hissed Palmer, whose eyes were already beginning to dampen. The two men shook hands, and then swung their hands up around to clap the other's hand. Their old handshake.

"And Ziva I. . . I'll learn to fight someday, and uh," Palmer stuttered, "I like your shoes." Ziva blinked at him, confused.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. I mean, I like other parts of you too. Wait, Tony! I didn't mean that! Bye, Ziva." He hugged her and moved away, embarrassed and slightly scared for his life.

"Ziva?" Abby returned from hugging Tim forcefully (which made little sense seeing as McGee wasn't leaving, but nobody dared to question her). "If you're going to be gone for that long. . .does that mean we will never have any little DiNozzoes?"

Ziva looked up at her friend, surprised she would think of such a thing at a time like this. Abby was on the point of breaking into sobs once again - she had always wanted to see "the little Tonys and the little Zivas" as she liked to call them.

"Never any little DiNozzoes," Ziva muttered, and Abby's face fell. "But. . ." she paused, unsure had to proceed. Tony and she had spoken at length about the idea of children undercover, but they hadn't reached a decision, ". . .we might have little, well, whatever-we-are-called's."

Abby nodded sadly. "So this is goodbye."

"For now," Ziva replied.

Abby broke into sobs once again and gave each of them, even McGee, Palmer, and Ducky, a bone-crushing bear hug. Wincing and holding back tears of emotion, Tony and Ziva linked hands and walked out the door, forcing themselves not to look back, preparing themselves to start their new lives together.

Six hours later, Tommy and Lea Jackson were on a plane over the Atlantic, returning from a short trip to visit Tommy's college buddies.

Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David were dead, killed in a one-car crash returning from a crime scene.

Based on the mourning of the heartbroken team, no one doubted this story.


	4. Her Tonys

**Her Tonys**

**4**

_One year in the future_

He crept up behind her and began to rub her shoulders. She started and glanced behind her.

"Relax, Lea, relax," he muttered to her as he massaged her upper back, his arms strong and gentle at the same time.

She lowered her gaze. "I cannot relax here, Tommy."

"Miss Israel?"

"No, not that vile place! I could live a lifetime and never return! I just . . .need rest I suppose." She closed her eyes, fighting the sadness that overwhelmed her. They were still unsure, even though they had been here a year, of how secure their new home was. They hadn't even been able to gain the trust of the terrorists enough to disrupt their operation or gain any valuable information. This conversation was basically an act put on for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. It was true, she could never relax, but she could never call her husband "Tony" or hear the comfort in his voice as he called her "Ziva."

Because of this, it startled her when he did. "Ziva," he whispered into her ear. "I love you. We can do this. It will get easier." She got up from beside him.

"You know what you were telling me yesterday about habits, Tommy? About how they have a stronger hold on humans than even many addictions." He nodded. He had said those words, trying to keep up the appearance as a renowned professor of psychology. She turned away.

"We must establish good ones."

He got to his feet and approached her, his eyes wide and sad. Then he reached down and kissed her. They wrapped themselves together and tried to shut out the pain of isolation in passion.

…...

Tony looked at Ziva's sweaty face and body atop the yellowish parched sheets. They were sequestered in a small room at a private American hospital. Tony's hand was aching in pain, but that was nothing compared to Ziva's agony. The doctor looked at the two nurses, trying to mask his concern as he worked at the difficult birth. Ziva's teeth were gritted. No noise escaped from her mouth though her eyes were on fire.

The doctor shouted instructions - at the nurses, at Ziva, even at Tony sometimes - but all Tony could hear was Ziva, her choppy breathing. Suddenly, she gasped a word, nearly a scream.

"Tony! Tony! Tony!"

It may have been the unhealthy dose of caffeine he had consumed when he realized Ziva was going into labor that kept his brain clear, but Tony realized that he could not say what he desperately wanted to say. _I'm here, Ziva. You're doing good. Come on!_ Instead, through his own tears, he said:

"I like it, Lea, I like it. If it is a boy, Tony would be a perfect name for him. You're doing good. Come on!" She blinked and realized what she had done and gasped, "yeah."

…...

Hours later, baby Tony was born, his dark curls wet against his head. Ziva held him in her trembling arms, whispering as if the one word she said were a precious jewel, "Tony, Tony, Tony, Tony." She gazed both at the baby and at her husband. "Tony, Tony, my Tony." She would never take that word for granted again, that word she could blessedly say once more.

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_Short and hopefully sweet. Now we are going to enter a time vortex. Please fasten your seatbelts, keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. Make sure to review before disembarking. :)_


	5. That's an Unusual Name

**That's an Unusual Name**

**5**

Tony Jackson tilted the hat and moved a curl carelessly from in front of his green eyes. He narrowed his eyes and then winked and smiled.

"Ga! I look so stupid!" he muttered, kicking the wall in front of him. Girls were never attracted to him. He was out of high school, and still nothing but a couple of failed dates. No girlfriend. Certainly no action. He didn't even know if he even _wanted _action, at least not now. It seemed so empty for all his friends, drunk and messy with the added benefit of a kid for one of his buddies at the international school he attended. Baby steps, baby steps. All he wanted was a girlfriend. "Ugh!" He grunted as he kicked the wall again.

"Did you say something, Tony?" his mother's voice sounded from the kitchen.

"No!" he called. "Should just keep my mouth shut anyway," he muttered. Talking to himself was one of his least favorite habits, the unfortunate side effect of being a social misfit with shallow friendships and overprotective parents who seemed slightly relieved when he decided to stay in the house and sequester himself in his room.

Well, he couldn't take it anymore. Tony tore his gaze away from his annoying image in the mirror and traipsed out of the room. "Going to the beach, Ima," he called, trying to cross the room before she had time to contradict him. His hand had barely alighted on the doorknob when her voice brought him to a stop.

"No, you are not. It is too late; I don't want you out now." She glanced at the window, slightly worried and fiddling with the paring knife she was carrying.

"It's still sunny!"

"No, it is not. It will be night soon, and the streets are not safe. Not for you," she added ominously. He was too annoyed to notice.

"Seriously? I'm eighteen, and I have a curfew of-what is this? Eight o'clock?" Tony glanced up, and, seeing his father, begged him to come to his aid.

"Lea," his father said softly. "Let him go; it's just the beach. He'll be fine." Their eyes met, and something intangible passed between them. Tony waited breathlessly for his mother's answer. He wasn't so much bothered about not being able to go to the beach as his mother putting such restraints on him.

She nodded reluctantly. She had lost the struggle, if only for today. Tony knew, as did his mother and his father, that they would have this argument again. "Do you have your knife?"

Tony rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to protest. She shook her head and pointed to his bedroom. "Get it. Now."

As Tony walked back to his bedroom, he heard his parents begin to whisper. He pretended to shuffle through his drawers while he strained his ears to listen to their words. He heard his mother's voice first, hushed and with the same worried tone she often adopted.

"It is of little use to him. He would hesitate too long and then. . ." her voice trailed off.

Her husband's voice was urgent. "It's what you wanted, though. You didn't want him to be a fighter."

"I want him alive."

"There's no threat. Look, no, look at me. He's getting older. You've got to give him a little bit of freedom or else he'll go crazy trying to find it."

His mother's voice was sad. "There is a threat. There is always a threat. Still, I understand. I just wish he could. . ." yet again her sentence remained unfinished, her words fading away.

A wave of shame overwhelmed Tony. _I just wish he could. . ._what? His mother's words were just more evidence that they didn't get quite what they'd expected in him. Take his "girl problem," for instance. "You treat women right, you hear, Little T?" his father used to lecture him sternly. Tony wasn't exactly sure who "Big T" was, but he liked the nickname and appreciated that neither parent used it in front of his friends. The shame came from when his father would add, "you need to know these things, son, cause when you are a certain age, man! All the girls will just fall all over you. I'm sure you've inherited every ounce of the Jackson family charm." His father didn't say that anymore, and Tony knew why. The way things were going, it didn't seem like Tony was in any danger of mistreating women.

Tony grabbed his knife and walked toward the door once more. "Got it, Ima!" he said before she could ask. He saw her force a smile.

"Have fun at your party!" His father called as he was closing the door. "Like you're going to the beach. Redonkulous!"

Humor. It was another major difference between him and his parents. His father was a joker, hardly ever serious except when he needed to be. When his mother wasn't in one of her depressed and anxious moods, she was quite a prankster and would return his dad's jokes with ease. Tony, on the hand, didn't like pranks. Somehow, they always ended up with him being humiliated in some way or another. His friends did laugh at his attempts at humor, but he was convinced they were sharing an inside joke about his awkwardness - laughing "at" him, not "with" him.

He walked down the street, hearing the buzz of Lebanese and several other languages around him. The languages slipped in through his ears and mingled in his brain, mercifully, if temporarily, erasing his self-deprecating thoughts as he lost himself in the deluge of diverse words. Languages were the one thing Tony felt truly confident about. He spoke thirteen, three more than his mother. His special talent with languages was the one thing that never failed to get acknowledged. In a sea of students better-looking and funnier and happier than him, he took a kind of comfort in knowing that he would always be introduced as "Tony Jackson - he speaks _thirteen languages_!"

As he approached the shore, Tony suddenly grew weary of all his negative thoughts. So he didn't have a girlfriend? Why did it matter anyway? He was exhausted with trying to figure out how to be something he wasn't. He had graduated; he was done with this. He'd get a girlfriend, or he wouldn't. Such a trait was one that identified him more with his mother, Lea, than his father. She accepted life as it came far better than his father. Tom fought tooth and nail against things he could not change. Still, Tony knew his positive change in attitude would be short-lived.

The beach wasn't crowded. He looked at the people who were there and was thankful, as always, that he had inherited many of his mother's features. He could slip amongst them unnoticed, with no doubts to his nationality. Dark curly hair, moderate height, moderate build, olive skin - nothing but his vibrant green eyes betrayed his foreign blood. If his birth certificate was any indication, after all, he was Lebanese.

A strange sight wrenched him from his thoughts. It was a young woman around his age, her pale skin tinged pink rather than sallow, her layered, waist-length light blonde hair obviously natural. She was so conspicuously out-of-place on the beach, and he couldn't stop staring. He instinctively hit himself on the back of the head. Why was he noticing all this about this girl?

Maybe it was because she was different. She seemed lost in her thoughts. Her light green dress was long, flowing in the gentle wind. She carried a camera in her hands, but he couldn't denounce her as simply another camera-toting tourist. Maybe it was because of the far-away look in her eyes. She seemed more like an artist than a gawking tourist, and besides that, this particular stretch of sand wasn't Beirut's biggest tourist attraction.

Tony gaped a moment longer, then impulsively decided to approach her. Maybe she was. . .Russian?

"Zdraustvuite." He said to her, hoping she would say, "what?" in her native language. She didn't. She just looked at him in confusion. Ugh.

Finnish? She was very blonde. "Terve." She tilted her head.

American, maybe. Or British. Or maybe she spoke English but was from somewhere else? In any case, it was the best way not to look like (more) of an idiot. "Hello." She smiled, and he felt relieved.

"Third time's a charm." His grin widened.

"You from around here?" he asked her, feeling his heart sink slightly as she glanced wistfully at her camera and at the sun sinking lower on the horizon.

"No. I'm from Washington. DC, I mean. I've never been to the state. But here I go rambling. You?" Tony shrugged.

"Here, with blood from here and there and everywhere." She giggled.

"What?"

"My mom loves Dr. Seuss, or as she calls him, Theodore Geisel."

"Why?" Tony asked, distracted.

"Well because, I guess, it rhymes. And its so simple and cute." She shrugged.

"I get that. I mean, the name."

"Geisel _is_ Dr. Seuss's name. You didn't honestly think he was born a Seuss?" she inquired.

"Never really thought about it much," he mumbled, embarrassed. _Great. Beautiful girl, talked to her for two minutes and already look like a total idiot. _"Always wanted to go to America," he added, trying to change the subject.

"You've never been?" she asked, oblivious to his discomfort. "You talk like you have. Colloquialisms, perfect accent."

"My dad's from Indiana, but he came here after he married my mom. She's from Israel. I'm from. . .nowhere." _Whoops, he thought. There go my guts. Spilled to this random girl who will never want to meet this creep she saw on the beach ever again._

"No, you are from here," the girl corrected, smiling compassionately.

"So why are you in Beirut?"

"Just graduated, and I got an amazing, full-ride scholarship to the Maryland Institute College of Art. It doesn't sound really impressive but believe me, it's a big deal. To thank me for letting them out of four years of college fees, my parents decided to let me go on a summer trip, taking some pictures for my portfolio." She gestured to her camera. "I wanted to go to Lebanon, Uruguay, and Mongolia."

"Why?"

"I just did," she said, a dreamy look on her face. "Every time I hear of those places my heart just leaps." She gave a little jump to demonstrate.

"So you're here, now. Is it magic?" Tony asked, then slapped himself in the back of the head. The girl looked at him, a look of pure confusion on her face. Tony felt even worse. _Great. I insulted her dreams and now she thinks I'm a masochist. _

"It's nice. Every place is nice, in its own way. A picture is beautiful, even if it isn't of a towering mountain peak. As strange as it seems, a piece of trash on the beach can make an amazing, emotionally-moving picture. You need the right lighting, context, contrast - the right trash doesn't hurt either," she added, chuckling.

She continued laughing as she looked up at the darkening sky. "I'll catch the sunset another day, I guess."

"Sorry!" Tony blurted out.

"It's fine," she giggled. "I think I'll watch it tomorrow, in fact." She winked. Did he just see her wink? Was that a wink? Tony's mind wasn't working right.

"What is your name, by the way? I didn't get it."

"Tony. And yours?"

She smiled. "Bet your dad named you - that's American. Or Italian. Or both. Anyway, I'm Ziva. It's a Hebrew name. Ironic, don't you think?"

Humming to herself, she turned and strolled down the beach, narrow hips swaying all the way.

_Hm, thought Tony from where he stood watching her go. Ziva. That's an unusual name.

* * *

_

_Before you say anything, yes, I know Ziva speaks 9, not 10, languages in canon. But according to some information I was reading, Lebanese is different enough from Arabic to be considered a different language, and I don't think she knew it before. Obviously they'd need to speak that, so I upped the language count. What's one more?_

_Thanks for reading. Please review! _


	6. Young Love, Old Memories

_I have no idea why I decided to attack theater people in this chapter. Most of my friends are theater people and as you can see from my username (or maybe not, it's a line from Wicked), I love musicals. No offense intended, my theater people readers!_

_I don't own the Notebook, a movie that I spoil for you all later on this chapter. So if you haven't seen it go watch it before you read this chapter, b__ut don't forget about my story! (And frankly, the movie is still good even if you know the twist going into it. I did, and still enjoyed it.)_

_

* * *

_

**Young Love, Old Memories**

**6**

Ziva plopped down on the comfy hotel bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking. Her parents had really pulled out all the stops for this trip, both monetarily and emotionally, as they normally were the epitome of over-protectiveness. "We've lost a lot, Zi. We love you; we just want you to be safe," her dad would say as he hugged her, and she just wanted them to be happy, so she never really minded.

Ziva was grateful for this trip. High school had been a bore. She was an average student; success in school came easily to her but she never really tried to do her best. She was far to in love with the arts to notice the academic subjects that so interested her parents and were beginning to take hold of her adorable, if annoying, little twin sisters. Her mom and dad didn't push her. "She's got talent," they'd say. "She does well enough. If she slips, we'll fix it then." She was eternally grateful to them for that as well.

She didn't have very many friends. She'd had two boyfriends, one while in tenth grade and one her senior year, both theater guys, both who had dumped her for someone they'd "gotten to talk to and know better during rehearsals." She wasn't naive. She'd been dumped for loud, dramatic leads her boyfriends had bonded with during make-out sessions in dressing rooms between acts. Oh well. C'est la vie. She comforted herself with her painting and pottery and pictures. Still, the sense of betrayal her last boyfriend left her with still cut her deeply. Wasn't she worth even a simple text message ending their relationship before he started messing around with other girls? Even being dumped so carelessly as that would have been better than the sensitivity with which he brought forth his deception.

A loud_ brrinnng_ took her away from her angry thoughts, and she groaned. She had begged her parents to only call once a week, and they had already called twice in the last four days. Her desire to talk to them battled with her desire for independence. After all, she could pretend that she was asleep.

Groaning again, Ziva answered the call. When all is said and done, she wasn't a rebel.

"Hello?" she answered tentatively.

"Hello this is. . ." this voice on the phone paused, and Ziva smiled in relief. No, it wasn't her mom or her dad checking up on her. It was just her little sister, playing the same game the twins always played when they called a family member. They'd omit their names and the other person would fill it in, proving that they saw the twins as individuals and not as a unit, something the two continuously fought against.

"Jennifer," Ziva supplied. She was the best at their game. While her aunt Sarah and her grandparents and even her mom and dad occasionally messed up, especially when Jennifer or Katie would disguise her voice, Ziva never did.

"Score one for the Z!" Ziva rolled over on the dark brown duvet and settled against the crisp white pillows. "So, Lebanon? How is it?"

"I've told you already. It's nice."

"No, you told me that it seems nice but you have to explore, take some pictures, and just get the feel of the cul-a-ture," she contradicted, her voice adopting a slightly smoother, older, more 'Ziva' quality despite her childish tendency to add syllables to words. "Now you have. So how is it?"

Ziva rolled her eyes. It was just like Jennifer to remember, word for word, what she had said, but miss the basic point of it all. "It's _still _nice." A sudden urge ran through Ziva.

"Hey Jen? You can keep a secret, right?" Stupid question. Jennifer looked on secrets as sacred; to her, sharing them was a horrible violation of trust. Ziva didn't think Jennifer had tattled on Katie in her life.

"Of course!" She almost sounded offended at the question.

Ziva still had to make sure. "You can't tell anyone. Katie, Mommy, Daddy, some random puppy, anybody."

"Why would I tell some random puppy your secret, Z?" asked Jennifer, legitimately confused.

"Well," Ziva said, her voice becoming a furtive stage whisper, "I met this guy."

"Ooh! What's his name Z-Z?"

"Tony."

"They got Tony's in Lebanon?" It did not escape Ziva how well-informed her eight-year-old sister was, knowing that a name Tony was an aberration in Lebanon, but that was her just like her little sister. Had she been speaking to Katie, she would have said the same thing. She should probably be grateful. The twins' obvious intellect was one of the major reasons that her parents so easily accepted her dreams in art - they'd still have plenty of science projects to brag about.

"He's. . .different, Jen. In a good way. His dad's American."

"Is he cute?"

"Very." Her voice seemed to dance. "He's got these long, loose dark curls - can you see those, Jen - but really green eyes. He's taller than me, but only just a _little bit_." Her voice grew squeaky to illustrate the last two words. She had inherited her mom's height. "I'd say about six feet tall, six feet one. But you want to know the best part, Jen?" she said, as if about to share a great secret.

"What!"

"He is most definitely not an actor!" She heard laughter on the other side of the line. Ziva loved talking to Jen, even though her little sister was only eight. If she didn't become a software engineer like she was planning to, Jennifer would sure make a great therapist. She was an amazing listener and, of course, guarded the secrets she heard with her life.

"I think meeting him was fate, Jenny." And of course, she had said the one thing her sister would try to contest, that little science devotee.

"Fate don't exist, Ziva."

"Come on! Just believe it for a second. Listen to this. You know when Daddy bops us on the head?" The sisters called the light slaps they received on the back of the head 'head bops.'

Jennifer giggled. "Yeah."

Ziva's voice returned to the stage whisper. "_Tony does it too. _I saw him! And Mom and Dad are the only people I've ever seen do that."

Ziva could almost hear Jennifer's brain trying to explain it away. She laughed to herself. She knew she was being a hopeless romantic, but she was having too much fun to care.

"Maybe it's a Lebanon-ese thing?" Jennifer inquired, awkwardly stuttering through the middle word.

"Mom and Dad have never been anywhere _near_ here."

"Mommy talks about Israel," Jen observed. Yet again, Ziva noted her little sister's knowledge. What eight-year-old knows Lebanon and Israel are neighboring countries?

"But she's never been. You know whenever Mom talks about Israel she'll get distracted and nervous."

"Oh." Jennifer had obviously never noticed that. "So, you guys going to go on a date?"

"I'm meeting him at the beach tomorrow!"

Jennifer squealed on the other side of the line, and then her voice became almost comically stern. "Now, Mommy and Daddy said you need to be responsi-bibble, Ziva. _Always bring your knife."_

"And you need to work on not repeating syllables, Miss Smarty-Pants. And don't worry, ma'am, I will."

"Good," Jennifer responded sternly. Then she let the adult tone drop from her voice and adopted a whining one. "Mommy wants to take us back-to-school shopping early, Ziva! I thought you could take us when you got back, but she really really wants to, and you know how she is!"

"Tough break, sweetie."

"Tell me about it! I don't want a bat backpack or a dress with a skull on it! Why can't she let us dress normal? I already have to take out my piggytales when I get to school!"

"You just have to get through third, fourth, and fifth, Jen. She'll stop when you get to middle school."

"Hmph. Three years are too much. I want to skip a grade. I'm going to talk to Daddy; he knows I can. He knows I'm capa-bibble"

"Not in English."

"Hey! I'm going to work on that!"

"You do that. Now I gotta get to bed, hun. Night."

"Nighty-night, Ziva. If you kiss him, call me." Ziva chuckled and, making no promises, hung up the phone.

…...

Would he go? Why wouldn't he go? Did she really want him to go? Why would she want him to go?

"Tony! You are pacing!" Ima was irritable; one of the journalists she worked for had dropped by that day. She always was in an inexplicably bad mood after one of them stopped in. "What is wrong with you?"

"What isn't?" he muttered.

"Tony, do not be moody," he saw her take a few breathes to calm herself. "Talk to me."

"Nothing, Ima." He gazed into her almond eyes. They were wide with concern. She was in her late forties, but even so she was still beautiful. She had lines like anyone else her age, and scars more than most, but vitality coursed through her body. Her hair was still vibrant, and she didn't even try to hid the small streaks of grey that joined the dark curls.

"Nothing only counts in. . .well, nothing counts in almost every sport. . .as nothing, Little T!" Tony's Dad had come in. She shot him a look of warning.

"Ooh, I see. A girl!"

"No, Dad!" Tony protested.

"You say that, son, but I know. I can see it in your eyes. Is she hot?"

"Tommy!" his wife shot at him.

"Yes," Tony muttered. "She wants me to meet her at the beach at sunset. He ignored his father's whistle. "Well, at least. . .I think she does. She winked when she said that she was coming back to see the sunset tomorrow, so I thought it was for my benefit. Was it?"

"Little T, you are so smart with your languages and all that but come on. She winked! Of course!"

Tony smiled. "She's really beautiful. She's from America, and she's an artist, her hair is really, really blonde, but I think it's her real color. No roots. And a what a name!"

His father leaned over to his wife and whispered "pad the floors cause our kid's fallen head over heels for this chick."

Ima laughed. "So what is this magnificent name, lovy-boy?"

His father interjected before he could answer. "Lea. It's _lover-_boy. How can you still mess them up? You've lived with me for how long?"

Tony smiled widely. "Ziva." He glanced at his mother, and then at his father, beaming. Then looked at them again. "What?"

…...

Tony, also known as Tommy, and Ziva, also known as Lea, sat in their walk-in closet. Over the years they had been able to make this one room soundproof and ensure it was free of bugs, one "redecorating" project at a time. It was the one place they were able to speak freely.

"_Ziva_," Ziva whispered to her husband. He was eight years her senior, well into his fifties, but he could have passed for a man of her age. His face had few lines, his body was toned, and his hair was a flattering salt-and-pepper.

"Coincidence? You aren't the only person in the world with that name." She made a noise. "What?"

"I don't think even I have that name anymore." Tony looked her straight in the eyes,

"My dear Ziva, wonderful Ziva, beautiful Ziva, still amazingly sexy Ziva, crazy ninja Ziva, incredible Ima Ziva, don't you think that, do you hear, Ziva?"

"All right, Tony." She smiled at him. "She's American," she suggested.

". . and?" Tony asked. "There are over three hundred million Americans. I'm sure there are a handful of Ziva's in there. Besides, even if having your name had something to do with you, what would it be?"

Ziva nodded. "You are right. We should not take this away from him." She let out an unexpected giggle. "Young love. Maybe it will make him a little happier."

Tony laughed. "I feel like we are in _the Notebook._"

"Do not be stupid, this is nothing like _the Notebook_." Ziva retorted. "We are not watching _ourselves_, we are watching two people with the same names. And _far_ fewer problems."

Tony shrugged. "Maybe it's symbolic?"

"As if your brain could figure that out," Ziva teased. She cuddled into him.

"You know what, Ziva?" Tony muttered.

"You are not nearly as fluffy as you should be at this age," she teased.

"No! Not that. You want me to gain weight?" he played into her jest.

"Never!" Ziva whispered seductively, knocking gently on his abs.

"No, I was thinking. I am going to love having a reason to say Ziva just as much as you love having a reason to say Tony."

"You think, Tony?"

* * *

_Okay, I feel obliged to say something. It is getting really fluffy. Which is good; I love some fluff sometimes. That being said, this is like the ride up on a roller coaster, approaching a sudden drop. It's rated T for a reason. There are storm clouds a-brewin'. The story is not all fluff, although there will be much more to come. _

_As always, reviews are amazing and appreciated, so please review!_


	7. Beginnings

**Beginnings**

**7**

Tony got to the beach at least an hour before the sun would be anywhere near setting. He continued to scan every face for hers, as if she wouldn't be immediately visible as a blonde island in a sea of dark brown and black.

Ultimately, she found him. "Forget what time sunset is?" she asked from behind him.

"W- why?" he stuttered.

"Because you've been here for twenty minutes, and the sun doesn't set for another twenty." He started to stutter, and she smiled. "It's okay. My mom says that there are a couple of different sunsets. She never would set it as my curfew. Said it was 'too ambiguous.' You wanna walk?"

"Sure," Tony replied. They began to walk up the beach in silence, staring around them. Ziva broke it.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Yeah, anything." He nodded rapidly. She smiled slightly, and he made a mental note not to appear so eager.

"Why do you go to the beach? I mean, I come to take pictures and besides, it's all new to me but you? You're not here to take pictures, or swim, or fish. Why do you come? Bad home life?"

He started at the abrupt question. "No! My parents are great. A little annoying, sometimes, but great. I just like to get away, clear my head." He paused. "But I do like to get out of the house when one of the journalists Ima works for visits."

"Why?"

He thought about it for a second. Tony had never been really sure what he hated so much about the reporters his mother worked for. There was one in particular who made his skin crawl. Perhaps it was his demeanor, or his sneer, or the way his parents fought when he left. He told her as much.

"Just something about him makes everything different at home. It's like - okay, I got to explain it all. He is a reporter, politics and world affairs. Ima does research for him. A long time ago, before she even married my dad, she was an officer of Mossad. Nothing really impressive, desk work mostly, codes, intercepting transmissions - she speaks 10 languages. Anyway, what she does have are contacts, background knowledge, and the means to get answers."

Ziva nodded. Despite Tony's insistence that his mother's work at Mossad was "nothing really impressive," she most definitely was impressed. She wanted to meet this woman. She thought her parents might like to meet her too, especially her dad. Codes fascinated him.

Tony continued: "Sometimes it'll be normal, like she is reporting what she's learned to him. Other times, they'll argue. As if you could argue about the news!"

Ziva shook her head, "I don't know, Tony. It's politics."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Once when I was eight and they were arguing, he hit her. He slapped her across the face. She didn't hit him back, but turned really pale. It was shocking that she didn't hit him back, but I guess she wanted to keep her job." He shrugged. "What really surprised me was that Dad just clenched his fists and pulled himself back, and then when he left my parents got into the worst fight I've ever seen them in. I still don't know over what."

"You are surprised your father did not do something to protect your mother?" Ziva clarified.

"Yeah," Tony mumbled, shocked that he was having this conversation with a girl he just met yesterday. He had never shared his jumbled feelings, his fear and uncertainty and confusion. Something about Ziva made him want to speak, even though he had only known her for a day.

Ziva didn't know what to say, so she just nodded, and they walked on. She felt drawn to share something about herself too, after his revelation. Nothing occurred to her to say, however.

They strolled down the beach in silence, each shooting covert glances at the other. After a moment, Tony felt as if he needed to say something to fill the awkward silence. "Bet you were really popular at school." She laughed.

_Ugh, he thought again. Too eager, too awkward. Well, at least she won't have to ask me the same question back._

"Nope, but I liked it that way. I had some friends with whom I would eat lunch, go to games; you know, the usual. We weren't close, and I doubt I'll really talk to them much now that they've gone off to UVA. How about you? How are your friends?"

"I think I'm their comic relief, or at least that is what my dad says." Tony altered his voice to sound like that of his father, making a note to substitute his name for his nickname. "'Of course they like you, Tony. So what if you're not the swashbuckling hero of the movie? You're the plucky comic relief. Every story needs one of them.' Then I told him I'd be dead before the opening credits. I have never seen my dad laugh so hard."

"Well that's not nice!" Ziva said, indignant.

Tony shrugged. "It's true."

Ziva smiled. "Maybe your dad's right. Every story does need a comic relief. At least you get to be that. I think I'd be the one who would be so lost in thought that she doesn't hear the monster coming. Then it comes and I'd scream and bam!" she shouted so loudly that every beach-goer surrounding them looked up in surprise. "I'd be dead, and that would be that. I'd be lucky if someone'd avenge my death."

_I'd avenge your death_,_ Tony thought to himself._ He was proud that this time the words didn't come spewing out his mouth. He was already failing in his quest to not appear overly eager.

"Do you want to go home with me?" he asked. She immediately looked affronted, and reached out and gave the back of his head a solid slap.

He gasped slightly at the unexpected familiarity of her touch.

"Well, what'd yah expect?" Ziva asked, a dark pink cloud spreading across her pale face.

"No, uh. Sorry, Ziva, I meant to meet my parents! I just. . .my dad does that. With the slapping and the head and stuff. . ." his voice trailed off as his face turned a deeper red than hers.

Ziva looked even more embarrassed. "Of course. There I go overreacting." She grinned. "My dad does that too. With the 'slapping and the head and stuff'," she added, using his words.

"Coincidence?" he proposed. They both paused for a moment before shaking their heads and saying simultaneously, much to their amused astonishment: "don't believe in 'em."

Tony laughed in relief. "You'll like my parents. And my dad makes some awesome milkshakes. Chocolate ice cream, brownie bits, m&ms, chocolate syrup, chocolate milk. You can leave out the chocolate milk if you think it might be a little much. Bet you're missing food from home, right?"

She smiled and laughed. "Sure." She hesitated for a second before adding, "and don't take this the wrong way, because you seem like a nice guy, but if you turn out to be a creep, I've got pepper spray and a knife and I'm not afraid to use them!"

Tony grinned. "Come on; it's this way. I think Ima is going to like you."


	8. Endings

_First, thank you to all of my reviewers. You all are amazing; I was so happy to get twice as many reviews last chapter as I normally get. _

_Second, this is the first of I'm sure more technological disclaimers. I can't even get the little "new message" symbol off my phone. That being said, I am going to do what most crime drama makers admit to doing. If reality fits my purposes, great, if not, well technology will bend to my needs. It helps that this is the future, too. I will try not to be crazy with that liberty, though.

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_

**Endings**

**8**

The sky was almost black when Tony and Ziva reached the Jackson house. The slipped in the through the back. Tony was on the verge of calling out, "Dad! Ima! I'm home!" when he heard loud voices from the kitchen, including a voice that belonged neither to his father nor his mother. Instinctively he knew not to alert them to his presence.

"Come here," he whispered to Ziva, and pulled her into one of the rooms closest to the door. She followed nervously, glancing around at the strange surroundings and, despite her instinctual trust of the boy who held her left hand, clutched the pepper spray in her right for security. Dark rooms in strange houses were probably what her father was talking about when he sternly warned her to be careful as she left.

They closed the door almost all the way and kept the lights off. Ziva was about to speak, to ask him indignantly what the problem was, when he whispered, "shhh. It's him. I want to listen. I'm sorry." She nodded, though he could not see her.

The voices were so loud that Tony had little trouble discerning every word, but they spoke in Lebanese, confusing Ziva. However, the tone of the conversation left little doubt in her mind: this was not a friendly visit.

The man spoke. "We had an agreement! Your information is getting sloppy. The last batch was almost worthless, and the time before that, the holes in your report almost cost me my operation!"

Tony heard Ima's voice, smooth and conciliatory yet at the same time he could detect concern behind her words. "Perhaps it was your operation, and not my report, with the holes." A loud slap sounded from the kitchen, followed by a slight gasp from his mother. Though Tony was overwhelmed with the urge to grab Ziva's knife and rush the man who had dared to strike his mother, he held himself back, his mind spinning in confusion. _What was going on? An operation?_

"Let's not get hasty," his father said in a hurried, heavily accented voice. "In situations like these, there are bound to be-"

"-your son!" the man interjected, and Tony felt his heart leap in fear.

"What about him?" Tony's father said protectively.

"He is gone, correct?" There was silence from the kitchen, and Tony assumed his father was nodding.

The man's voice was angry, yet measured, when he spoke again. "You have one last chance. If the intel you provide me is not of use to me, you will be discarded. You, and your son."

If Tony had thought he was afraid or confused before, it was nothing compared to how he was feeling at this moment. His heart was heavy, his gut felt twisted, but mostly, he just wanted someone to tell him why a reporter would be making death threats to his informant and her family.

"You have no need for concern. I assure you that-"

The man cut off his mother. "And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, _anyone,_ I will ensure something worse than death will happen to you all. Do we understand each other?"

More silence; more nodding, he assumed. A second later the door right outside the room where Ziva and Tony were hiding opened and slammed, leaving behind the faint odor of sweat and the man's customary overbearing cologne. Tony put his hand on Ziva's shoulder. She was trembling from the effect of the argument in Lebanese.

After about thirty seconds of silence she spoke. "Tony? What was that?" _Nothing, nothing, _Tony tried to convince himself to mutter. This wasn't her battle, and from the sound of things, it could get dangerous. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't stop the words from spilling from his mouth.

"I don't know! He said he wanted information for an 'operation' or something, and if they didn't get it he was going to kill them and me. We can't tell them we heard, though. He said nobody could know, not even me. I don't understand!"

Ziva moved into the strip of light, and Tony could see that her eyes were wide in fear.

"What are they, _spies_ or something?"

Tony choked. "I don't know!" He paused. "No, of course they are not! My dad's a psychology professor; my mom does research, all legal and by-the-book."

Ziva shuddered. "Normally people don't make death threats over 'legal and by-the-book' information. Tony. . .are you sure?"

"No!" he whispered like a shout. "I don't understand any of this, Ziva." He felt himself breaking. She put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him, surprised yet again on how close they were after one day. In the back of her head, a voice asked her what she had gotten herself into when she had agreed to meet the parents of a boy she had only just met.

"Maybe my dad can help. He's a. . .cop." She had faltered for a moment. She wasn't suppose to tell people, especially foreigners, about her father's career.

Tony smiled ironically. "Thanks, but I don't know what an American cop can do about all this."

She shrugged. "He's good at getting information on people." Tony faltered for a second, the command 'don't involve others!' resounding in his head.

"He told my parents not to involve others, Ziva. He said he would hurt us if they did."

Ziva nodded. "Yeah, but he doesn't know about me. I can do it from my cellphone at the hotel and he'll be none the wiser, right?"

He shook his head nervously. "No, Ziva. I don't know what this is, but you are too involved already. Bitar sounded like he meant business."

Ziva shook her head still more forcefully than Tony had. "That is exactly why you need to let my dad help you. Maybe. . ." she paused, trying not to insinuate something that would offend him, ". . .maybe he can figure something out about your parents, too. See how they got all tangled up in. . .whatever this is."

He sighed, still worried. "Do it. His name is Ali Bitar." She nodded.

"I'll do it right when I get to my hotel, just in case Bitar is monitoring text messages sent from this house."

"Look," Tony muttered. "We need to act like nothing has happened. And you shouldn't walk to the hotel at this time of night alone, which means I need to bring you. If we don't go see my parents they will wonder why I was out so late. Can you act naturally?"

She smiled and winked. "I dated theater guys, Tony. I had to be a good actress."

…...

They emerged from the room to find Tony's father clutching his mother's shoulders, a serious look on his face. She stared into his eyes; her own were resolute. A red shadow of a hand was visible on her face, but only if you knew it was there, as Tony did.

They looked up as he walked in, startled. His mother smiled quickly. "Speak of the demon."

"Ima!" Tony indignantly joked, his voice a little flatter than usual. They were lying; he had known they would, but he still did not like it. He knew he was not the cause of their argument.

"It's devil, Lea," his father said to her in a stage whisper.

"Same difference," she hissed back. Then she spotted the small figure lurking nervously behind Tony. "Well then. Is this Ziva?"

She startled at hearing her name. He had mentioned her? "Yes ma'am. Nice to meet you both."

Tony's mother laughed. Her laugh, too, was hollow. "Now am I that old already? Do not answer that. It is nice to meet you too."

Tony's father winked at him and mouthed, 'good find'. Tony grimaced. "I've heard so much about you, Ziva." She blushed. Tony's father ignored her discomfort. "You have an interesting name for a blonde American. Is there a story behind it?"

"Apparently she was a friend of my dad's who died. They don't talk about her much. But I like it, regardless of where it came from." The two adults glanced at each other. The man hesitated for a moment before forcing a smile.

"Have you ever tried a quadruple chocolate milkshake, Zee-vah?" Tony's mother chuckled. The two teenagers shared a look. 'Told you so' Tony mouthed.

As Tony's father messed around in the kitchen, the teenagers sat down at the table with his mother. Ziva tried to look at Tony as much as possible and cement a smile on her face. Tony was right; his parents were nice, but the whole situation confused and even scared her. On top of that, Tony's mother was scrutinizing her a little too much for her comfort.

"Best you will ever taste, I promise!" A dark brown drink was plopped in front of Ziva. Her fake smile widened and became, perhaps, a little more sincere. She wanted to get to know these people better.

She only hoped, perhaps naively, that her father would text her back in a day and assure her that everything was fine, that Ali Bitar was simply an overly ambitious investigative reporter.

Based on the concern in the eyes of the boy sitting next to her, he did not share her confidence.


	9. Unsealing the Past

**Unsealing the Past**

**9**

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Ding!_

_Huff. Hiss. Huff. Hiss. Huff._

"Vera?" Tim interjected sharply. The loud sounds the young agent's breathing made were cut off as she sucked in all of her air and faced her team leader.

"Boss?"

"Something on your mind, Lynn?" McGee asked, trying to keep his voice level. Every small sound was bothering him today in his current state of anxiety, but the nervous noise his newest agent was making completely stole his concentration.

Special Agent Lynn Vera glanced at him again. "No, sir. Just trying to see if we missed anything in the surveillance video of the attack. You know, to see if I can catch his face." She shuddered.

"Agent Vera, we don't it's a man. Never assume." His irritation had lessoned, though; he had been in her shoes, disgusted by every sign of violence. Over time the shock would decrease somewhat, but it would never truly disappear. Even he had to admit that this case was a particularly painful one to use to get thick skin. Even with more than two and a half decades of experience behind him, the video of the brutal attack shook him to the core.

It was a horrible reminder that evil existed in the world, that it haunted dark and light places alike, and that his daughter was even now out in that world without his protection.

_Brrrrrrrrrr. Brrrrrrrrr._

McGee's hand darted to the vibrating cell-phone that he used for his personal calls, almost praying the call was from Ziva. It had been far harder than he had expected being apart from her, going days without hearing her voice or seeing the glint in her smile that reassured him that all was well with his child.

Yes! He could have shouted aloud as he saw her name appear on the screen. A second later, he felt a wave of disappointment as he realized it was a text message.

Oh well. It was better than nothing. He tapped the screen to reveal her message; it was short, with little grammatical sense and punctuation. _Just like her_, he laughed to himself.

"_dad check out ali bitar lebanese reporter think he might be bad news and dr tom and lea jackson employee might be in danger. 3 z"_

He furrowed his brow at the cryptic message, though it probably made perfect sense to her when she wrote it. Did a reporter think this man Bitar was bad news, or was he a reporter who _Ziva _thought might be trouble? Where was she getting this information, and why on earth hadn't she called him to explain?

Tim dialed her number, but it went straight to voicemail. She must have turned it off immediately after sending the message. He glanced at his watch. 4:49 PM. No wonder; it was nearly midnight in Beirut.

He sighed again, asking himself why he had allowed his daughter to journey alone to a region that, while not nearly as dangerous as it had been in years past, was still not quite the safest destination in the world.

He punched a button on the phone and, seconds later, a video into Abby's lab appeared. Her face was in the screen, smiling widely into her own phone.

"Got _something_ for me, Timmy? I'm starving down here! No evidence, no caf-pow, no little scientists to help me along. . ." She pouted at the screen, and Tony rolled his eyes.

"Trust me, Abs, Katie has tried the puppy-dog face on me too, but it's not my call. The Director says no, and he's right. Having the kids help you compromises evidence, even though it helps them learn_,_" he explained.

Abby McGee did not stop pouting. "Yeah," she complained, "but _Extended Day, The Science Way_ is so boring for them after what they've done here." Her voice had turned sing-song as she said the name of the twin's after-school program.

"At least it keeps them safe," he muttered. "Look, I'll be down there in a sec. We haven't got anything new on the case, but Ziva sent me something I want to check out." He quickly backtracked as Abby's eyes widened in fear. "No, no! You know her; it's probably nothing. I just want to make sure. And I need your help, because her message makes no sense, and you always understood her rambling better than me."

Abby nodded, her eyes still anxious. Her concerns about the twins' scientific education were replaced by fear for her eldest's safety.

…...

Tim McGee hastened into the lab, but before he could say a word Abby had grabbed the cellphone from his fist. Confusion marked her features as she examined her daughter's run-on text. Tim could see her panic rising; her breath was becoming more rapid, and she was beginning to rock, hugging herself.

"Abby," he said, his voice soothing. He kissed her gently, and she looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Let's start by checking out this man, Ali Bitar. Then we can look into the others she mentioned."

Abby reached up an arm to type something on her computer, and Tim stopped it.

"Later," he whispered consolingly. "You need to pick up the kids, remember? I'll talk to Ziva first thing in the morning; we'll get this all worked out. I've got to go try to get somewhere on this case in the meantime. Vera's almost losing it, and Lance has been mocking her nonstop about it."

Abby laughed suddenly and then her face fell, becoming even sadder than it had been moments before.

"What?" he asked coaxingly.

"It's just. . .nothing." She added, uncharacteristically short-winded.

Tim nodded, smiling sadly. "Relax tonight, Abs. Don't let Jen talk you to death."

As Tim walked into the elevator and rode it up the bullpen again, a flame of sorrow that hadn't tormented him for a while licked at him. There they were again, the way they always came. Like ghosts, they haunted his and Abby's conversations, never appearing but always there. He talked about them, the good times with Tony and Ziva, the laughter and the friendship. Abby couldn't, even after all these years. Beyond the naming of their firstborn, neither name ever came from her mouth, not in reference to the friends they had lost.

They were gone to her, gone for good, gone without even the horrible closure provided by death.

…...

The second his alarm clock started to blare at 6 am, Tim's hand shot out, grabbing his cellphone.

He punched the numbers he knew by heart; three rings later, he was relieved to hear her eager voice.

"Did you find something, Dad?"

Tim yawned. "No, Z. I haven't looked yet. I could barely figure out what you wrote!"

Ziva responded, exaggerating every syllable. "A-li Bi-tar is a re-por-"

"Ziva," Tim said warningly but not threateningly. Somehow, Timothy McGee never could manage that effect.

"Alright, alright. Ali Bitar is a reporter; he seems like trouble. Lea Jackson is a woman works for him; I think he's been threatening her and her husband, Tom, a psychology professor. It sounds like it isn't all on the up and up, if you know what I mean. I thought you could check it out for me. . ." her voice trailed off at the end.

"Z, where'd you get your intel?" A long paused followed his words, and when Ziva finally spoke, her voice was tentative.

"Tom and Lea Jackson are the parents of a. . .friend."

Oh, great. He could see where this was going. "Friend have name, Z?" he asked sternly.

'Tony," she squeaked before hurrying on. "Look, it's probably nothing, but he's just a little worried about his parents. Bitar apparently was being a little threatening talking to his mom."

"Why doesn't he call the police, then, Ziva?"

He could hear Ziva backtracking. "Like I said, Dad, it's probably nothing. He doesn't want to cause trouble for his mom-you know, with her job-if he is overreacting. I'm in no danger," she assured him.

Despite her words otherwise, Timothy was still worried. "Ziva, have you checked in with Ms. Baker every day like I asked?" Their former neighbor lived in Beirut with her diplomat husband and had been more than willing to look over Ziva from afar while she was there, frequently contacting her. Her presence was the only reason Tim had allowed Ziva to travel to the city.

"Yeah," Ziva replied, disgruntled. She hadn't liked even the small damper on her absolute freedom, although it was still far more than she ever experienced in the past.

"Okay, look. I'll check it out. We're going to talk about this later. You sure you are in no danger?" McGee asked, his voice anxious. "Please go stay with Ms. Baker if anything, anyone scares you. Please."

"Okay, but. . ."

"Look, Ziva, we're trying to find a serial killer here. We'll do the best we can."

"Dad?" she asked. "Can you check out his parents too? He just wants to. . .confirm they're not hiding anything."

"Ziva!" he said, more worried than angry. "No, that's it. You are not going to be seeing this boy anymore." Parents with a dubious past? An over-aggressive reporter? He may not have Gibbs' gut, but he had a father's instinct.

"Who said I was seeing him, Dad!"

"Well, even if your not "seeing him," don't see him!"

"Okay, Dad," she said in a small voice. "But can you still check it out?"

"Alright, Z. We'll do the best we can once we catch this dirtbag."

"Thanks Dad," she responded, her voice small.

As Timothy hung up the phone, he resolved to discover all could about this man and put his daughter's fears to rest.

…...

As Ziva hung up the phone, she felt her stomach tighten. It had been years since she had lied to her dad so directly. Despite all the confusion, however, she still wanted to get to know Tony better.

_It's nothing_, she assured herself. _Dad will call in a few days and tell me that it's nothing. Just another careerist who thinks he can intimidate others to get what he wants._

…...

It wasn't until a week later that the serial killer was caught, and McGee's team breathed a sigh of relief. As Abby began to investigate more and more about Ali Bitar, however, she began to grow nervous again.

"Timmy," she muttered near noon of the two-week mark after the conversation with Ziva, "I can't find anything on this guy! Are you absolutely, completely, wholly sure that Ziva isn't involved in all this!"

McGee hesitated. "She told me she wouldn't see him again."

Abby fidgeted, jumping from one foot to another. "Well, I don't believe her. I mean, I'd normally believe her; Z doesn't lie to me; well, I guess she was talking to you so then she never lies to _you_, but come on! Timmy! She met a guy named _Tony._ Not even the word of Timothy McGee could keep them apart! It's fate!"

Abby blinked tears out of her eyes as she tried to suppress the combined emotions of fear and loss. She kept speaking, her voice rapid. "I've found Ali Bitars, sure, but none are reporters!" she asked tentatively.

Tim's pulse quickened. "Okay. Let's try the other two."

"Tom. . .and. . .Lea. . .Jackson," Abby muttered as she typed. She gave a choked laugh. "Sounds like _Deep S-_"

She stopped her words as she remembered the people behind the characters in her husband's book, and she blinked new tears out of her eyes as she searched.

"Well, it looks like noth- what!" She started. "It's a sealed file."

"By us." Tim finished, stunned.

Abby started frantically typing in all the security codes she knew, and Tim, looking around carefully to ensure he wasn't being watched, provided her with the ones she didn't.

The file still remained sealed.

"This is serious stuff," Abby murmured, awed. "They don't even want you seeing it, and I mean, come on! You're _McGee_."

"Well, you're 'McGee' too, Abby." He winked at her.

They continued to work in silence, trying to hack into their own agency's file. After three frustrating hours, Abby's yell of triumph was accompanied by a satisfying _ding!_.

They gave each other a high five before examining the document before them. McGee read faster than Abby, his eyes darting up as he read the terrifying word.

"Oh my god, Abby," he panicked in a hushed voice. "_Terrorist."_

But Abby kept reading, and soon her eyes froze lower on the page.

_Agents: Anthony DiNozzo and Ziva David. Previous identities: Terminated. Duration: Undetermined_

For once in her life, Abby couldn't speak. Tim couldn't either, for a while. Eventually he was able to rasp the words. "I can't believe it. Ziva was right." He paused in shocked, opening his arms to embrace his trembling wife.

"Tim! What if Ziva was right about everything. . .everything, everything? If Tom and Lea are Tony and Ziva. . .then, then, then," she stuttered to a stop.

Tim gulped. "Then they're the ones in danger. And Z might be in danger too, if she's still seeing him."


	10. A Date Delayed

**A Date, Delayed**

**10**

_Earlier the Same Day, Beirut_

The light in the living room was fading, with orange streaks cast across the wall from the high windows. Two figures reclined lazily on the leather couch, their hands intertwined. Their conversation drifted from their childhoods to their dreams, never alighting on one subject. Both felt an inexplicable urge to know more and more about the person beside them, as if they were filling a void in their lives.

It was Ziva who brought the conversation back to the subject they had been avoiding.

"My dad hasn't found anything yet about Ali Bitar."

Tony's heart sunk. He had been hoping for answers; nowhere in his mind did he believe that Ali Bitar was harmless. "Nothing?"

"Look, Tony. He tried. Dad says that he could be bad news, but if he is, he's really good. He's going to keep looking, though."

"Great," Tony muttered sarcastically. "Ima and Dad haven't been the same since he came. They don't believe he's nothing, I'm sure." He lowered his voice in bitterness. "Of course, if I'm right, _they_ are not the ones being deceived. That'd be me."

Ziva glanced around the house before remembering that Tony's parents were out. "They're good people, Tony. I'm good at reading people. They love you. I don't know what is going on, but they love you. I think they are being used too."

Tony gripped a pillow in frustration. "Then why doesn't my dad do anything when he hits Ima?"

Ziva shrugged sadly. "He's scared?"

"No. Dad doesn't get scared."

Ziva smiled. "Your dad isn't perfect, Tony. He can get scared. Everybody can. Remember I was telling you about my godfather? He seemed so stoic; I thought that man was fearless. Even when the twins were born premature he was able to be strong for my mom. But when Katie began to slip away, even he was shaken. After she grew stronger, I told him that he had surprised me. You know what he said?"

"What?" asked Tony, enthralled. He loved stories of her family, the little siblings he had never had, the two sets of traditional grandparents he also lacked, and especially the extended network of friends closer than relatives. He had always wished his family had that. His parents were wary of strangers.

"'Ziva, courage that never hurts-that's not courage. If you don't have to fight for strength, you are not strong: you're a robot.'" She chuckled. "It was the most he ever said to me at one time, at least so far. If he ever hears about all of this I bet I'll get the longest lecture of my life!"

"I'd sure like to meet him someday," Tony muttered, more to himself than to her.

Tony's fingers tightened in hers, and they smiled at each other. "Hey, Ziva," he whispered eagerly, his heart beating a little faster. "Do you want to go out somewhere?"

She grinned nervously. "I don't really like clubbing, Tony, if that's what you-"

"-not exactly," he interjected. "It's an art gallery." His eyes were hopeful.

"I'd love to, Tony. But what about your parents? Don't they have a problem with you going out at night?"

He groaned. "It's not even night yet. Besides, it's better to seek forgiveness than to ask permission."

Ziva looked at him in curiosity at the familiar saying. "You sure we aren't long-lost cousins or something?"

"Gosh, I hope not!" Tony declared.

"Why?" Ziva asked, a tease in her voice.

Tony took a deep breath. This was either going to be the stupidest or most romantic thing he would ever say. Based on his track record, it was probably the former, but he was willing to take that risk for her. "Because then I couldn't do this." He leaned forward and kissed her.

When they separated moments later, they both were breathless and beaming. "So. . .the art gallery. Where is that?" Ziva asked, grinning widely.

"Not far away. Ugh." He heard the door swing open behind him. Too late.

"Hey, we were just leaving. . .please?" Tony called out absentmindedly.

A hand covered his mouth powerfully. It gripped him so he couldn't scream while something hard and cold was pressed against his back.

"I don't think so," a voice whispered. "Struggle and die." A muffled whimper from his side confirmed that someone was doing the same thing to Ziva.

* * *

_Ooh, cliffhanger. On that note, I'm getting really busy so, while of course I'll continue updating, it will not be nearly as frequent as it has been lately. Sorry!_


	11. Caller ID

**Caller ID**

**11**

The darkness was enveloping. Tony's hands shook, rattled by fear and the icy cold of the vice that held them together. He looked to his left and could just make out the outline of a thin figure beside him - Ziva.

The two men who had forced them from his home had deposited them unceremoniously in cold metal chairs and left the room, but they hadn't dared move for several minutes. They hadn't even dared to speak.

It was Tony who broke the silence.

"You okay, Ziva?"

Silence. Seconds later, her trembling voice sounded. "I. . .I think so, Tony. I didn't recognize those men. Could they have been his? Could they have been Bi-"

"Shh," Tony whispered suddenly as he heard hushed voices in Lebanese outside the door.

"I told you!" The loudest voice yelled, though it came across muffled to Tony, "I told you to get the man, the woman, and their son. And yet you have the gall to tell me you came with only the boy! And who is the other one? The last thing we need now is a liability!"

Tony couldn't make out the muffled response. He heard the slam of a body against the door and cringed, but it remained closed. Minutes later, the voices had silenced, yet no one entered the room where they were trapped.

"Ziva? Can you move?" Tony whispered.

He heard her shift. "Yeah."

"Okay. Don't," he hissed. He got to his feet and walked as quietly as possible to the door, with every step fearing that Bitar would burst in and hurt him, or worse, Ziva, for trying to escape.

He rubbed up against the doorknob, painfully twisting his wrist to try to grasp it. After minutes of fiddling, he had it secured. He contorted his body, praying that the frigid ball would turn.

It didn't.

He explored the windows, trying to raise the blinds that completely obscured the actual window with his bound hands. Even they were locked in place.

Suddenly, a creaking from across the room accompanied by a whimper from Ziva made him jump. He dashed back in the direction of his chair, but his leg caught on a heavy, dark object and he stumbled. Moaning at his pulsing shin, he tried to stumble forward, but he was too late. "Ugh!" he grunted as a swift kick was placed on his lower back.

"Trying to escape, are we, boy? It is futile," Bitar stormed at him in Lebanese, grasping his upper arm and painfully pulling him into the metal chair next to Ziva's, who had begun to cry at the foreign words of their captor.

Bitar turned his attention to her. "It seems we have acquired an unnecessary burden. I need you and your parents, specifically your Ima, boy; she is nothing to me. And she knows too much." It was as if he was trying to justify something to him, and Tony's stomach turned when he realized exactly what. Bitar had pulled out a gun. The barrel was focused straight at Ziva's forehead.

Tony glanced at the door. Two men stood sentinel in the dim light, both with guns drawn. Even if a miracle occurred and they were able to get Bitar's gun away, two others were pointed at their heads.

"No!" Tony screamed as Ziva begged, "please, please, please."

"Kill me instead!"

Bitar laughed, distracted. "But you have such _value_, boy," he slurred, "at least for now. I really don't need you. What information could you know? I need your dear Ima and Daddy and you might just be useful in getting them. She, on the other hand, is nothing to them and thus is nothing to me."

"No! Don't! No, Ziva is like a daughter to them; she's the daughter of a friend of Ima's from Israel!" Bitar laughed, but something made him lower his gun slightly.

"You are not Israeli, girl." He spat. "You know, boy, it is almost disappointing how little like your parents you are. You wouldn't survive a day in their business."

A shadow of fury passed over Tony's face which was already contorted in fear and desperation, and, surprising even himself, he spit at the man in front of him.

Bitar's laughter increased in volume. He sounded almost insane now as he wiped Tony's spittle from his mangily gray beard. "Aw," he muttered delicately, "so they never told you. Well, I cannot wait for _that _particular family discussion. I do believe I will wait to inform you until later, when your family is reunited. They have caused me quite a bit of trouble, and I have an air for the dramatic, boy."

Bitar turned his attention to Ziva, and the laughter left his voice. "Who are you?"

She merely cringed and glanced at Tony in terror. "Try English," Tony hissed. "Bastard," he added in English, earning a backhand across the face.

"Who are you?" Bitar asked again, this time in slurred and gravely english.

"Z-z-ziva," she stuttered. This time he struck her. Tony cried out in fury.

"Full name, girl!" A note of urgency had been injected into his tone. Tony did not understand why her named had saved her, or at least, had delayed his attack. He did not care; he was just grateful it did.

"Ziva Viola McGee, eighteen, Washington DC, what else do yo-"

"Shut up!" Ziva cringed, preparing herself to be struck, yet no attack came. Bitar merely stormed out of the room, shutting the door forcefully behind him.

As soon as he saw the door close, Tony spoke, his voice pleading. "I'm so sorry, Ziva."

She tried to laugh. "Well, I'd tell you not to apologize, but my jaw seems to think differently."

"Seriously, Z. This is all my fault; he didn't hurt you too bad, did he?"

"It's just bruised Tony. I'm okay, for now." She shuddered. "I'm sure your parents will find us soon, right?"

This time it was Tony who tried to joke. "With Ima's paranoia, I'm sure she's halfway here already, ready to finally put some of that Mossad training to good use to rescue Tony Dean Jackson and Ziva _Viola_ McGee. What is that anyway?"

"I'm not really worried about my mom's choice in middle names right now," Ziva muttered. "Do you think that is what this is about, though, Tony? Something your mother intercepted at Mossad, or something? Even all those years ago? Who is this guy really?" She shuddered again. "And why didn't he kill me?"

Tony considered her questions, longing to wrap her in his arms and protect her from Bitar. "He lowered the gun after I lied and said that you were the daughter of some of Ima's Israeli friends. But I don't get it. He didn't believe you are Israeli, and obviously he knows you are not now."

Tony scooted over in his chair until he was sitting on the edge, his shoulder just brushing Ziva's. Gratefully, she leaned over and placed her head on his shoulder.

"They'll find us, Z. They'll find us," he reassured her softly. _Hopefully without getting themselves captured too_, he thought, fear gripping him again.

…...

At that moment, the older Tony and Ziva slipped through the front door of their home, their arms clutching groceries. "Tony!" Ziva called as she entered into the living room. "Tony?"

"Probably out with his first girlfriend," her husband chuckled, singing the last two words in a victorious tone.

"Well, I do not like it. We are going to need some rules. He cannot just be gone like this," Ziva fussed.

"Chill, Lea. He's eighteen, and he's absolutely crazy for this girl. Give him his space."

She sighed in worry, thinking about the threat on their lives. "I do not like it." Her voice was stubborn. "When he comes home, we will arrange some things."

"Killjoy," Tony pouted.

"Maybe. But at least he will be safe. I just want Tony to be safe," she muttered, looking him directly in his face. He read the double meaning in her words.

An hour and a half passed. Ziva began to pace the room; Tony attempted to embrace her, but she shook him off.

"He would have called. He would not do this to us." Tony took her hands and brought his lips close to her ear until they almost brushed her skin.

"Ziva, relax," he whispered almost inaudibly. "He thinks he's in love; he doesn't understand that there's danger out there. It's a crazy combo there. He's fine."

"No. He is not fine. My son does not do this."

"_Our _son has never had a girlfriend before."

"Well, I am going to do something." Ziva's voice was resolute. "He is not answering calls-"

"-he left his cellphone. He doesn't want us bothering him, Lea!" Tony cut in, exasperated. Ziva froze. How could she have missed the obvious step?

"Have you called her?"

"What? And rain on their parade? No way."

"Well, I am going to." She scurried to Tony's room, pushing aside the textbooks and the spare pieces of paper on his desk with little regard for his privacy. Finally, she found what she was looking for: a little slip of paper with girlish writing that said _Ziva, 202-555-3902. _

She slipped her phone out of her pocket and had already dialed the numbers when she rejoined Tony.

_Brinnng! Brinnng! Brinnng! Brinnng!_ After four rings, the phone switched to the recorded message: _Hello, you've reached Ziva McGee. I am not here right now, although this is a cellphone so here could be anywhere. But it doesn't matter; I'm not there. Shh, Jen, I'm recording the message thingy. Please lea-._ The message was so long that it was cut off before the cheerful teenager could finish her monologue.

Ziva dropped the cellphone. The metal hit the tile beneath her feet and the screen cracked. She did not care. Turning to stare, wide-eyed at Tony, she breathed, "Ziva McGee, Ton- Tommy." She was so shocked she nearly forgot the cover that had become almost instinctual.

"I knew it," Tony whispered. Then, realizing that prior knowledge of the name McGee would establish a connection to NCIS, embraced Ziva again to whisper to her. "Too many similarities. Heck, she practically reeks McGee. And Sciuto too, I'd bet."

A new desperation filled Ziva's face. "They are not on a date. I have this. . . gut feeling, or. . .or. . ."

". . .a mother's instinct," Tony finished softly. "Okay, we'll find them. First, let me check out this art gallery he mentioned a couple days ago. He said he wanted to take her to it. Look, I just want to make sure they aren't there, okay?" She nodded.

"While I'm gone, think about Bitar. See if you can think of anywhere he might have taken them."

"No, I am looking for my son too."

"What use are the kids to them? None. They want us; and I need you here in case they try to get us. Keep your weapons on you."

She smiled despite her fear. "I always do." He tossed her his cellphone.

"Try calling again."

As she dialed and let it ring, she could not avoid the feeling of helplessness that rose up inside of her. Her son was missing, her old friends' daughter too, and she didn't even know where to begin looking.

…...

Bitar carelessly glanced down at the cellphone that was again buzzing in his hands. The caller ID read "Dr. Jackson." He smiled. It would be effortless to manipulate them. He laughed. His revenge against the two who had destroyed his organization would almost be too easy. He might even have fun with this.

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